


Blossom

by silentvoicescryingout



Series: Unwritten [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Haruno Sakura-centric, Parental Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 06:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30067962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentvoicescryingout/pseuds/silentvoicescryingout
Summary: She watched her mother’s hands as she worked, a pang of nostalgia stabbing into her chest. Mebuki’s hands were small, smooth pale skin covering delicate bones and tendons. The fingers moved like they were dancing, something that had enthralled Sakura since she could remember. They seemed so graceful, so steady and sure. She had tried many times to mimic those movements, that elegant softness, but she had never quite got it right. Her own hands were littered with scars, now, suited only for precision in surgery and devastation in battle.~This scene was originally in chapter 9 of Unspoken, but ended up being shortened to a much smaller moment for the sake of length and plot. A conversation between Haruno Mebuki, Sakura's mother, and Sakura that is about her relationship (lack thereof) with Sasuke, but also not about him at all.
Relationships: Haruno Mebuki & Haruno Sakura, Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke
Series: Unwritten [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2201751
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Blossom

Loud knocks sounded against her door and Sakura was jolted awake. She stood and walked to the window, a quick peek through the curtains causing her to groan and close them back aggressively.

Soreness throbbed deep in her limbs, the after affects of chakra exhaustion leaving her feeling wrung out and brittle. She had no paste, and was unsure how much she could tolerate after the emotional disaster that was the night before. 

The knocks sounded again, harder and louder this time and Sakura hissed a curse, trudging over to the door while trying to smooth her hair away from her face simultaneously.

When the door swung open, her own eyes stared back at her.

“Good morning,” Haruno Mebuki greeted, eyes flitting briefly over Sakura’s form. “I had hoped you wouldn’t be so rude to ignore your mother when she came to visit.”

“Come in, Mom,” Sakura sighed, offering a weak smile. She stepped back slightly to allow her mom to enter, scowling as soon as the woman’s back was turned.

_ Be nice, Sakura. _

“You know, it’s been quite a while since you’ve come to see your father and I, my little blossom,” her mother noted, pacing about her living room absentmindedly. Sakura’s lip twitched as she watched the woman reach out and shift items around, as if she owned the place. 

“Sorry, Mom,” Sakura cleared her throat, standing awkwardly by the threshold. “I’ve been...busy.”

“Too busy to take care of yourself, hm?” she replied, peering at Sakura over her shoulder. Green eyes roved from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

Suddenly Sakura was a child again, tiny and inadequate under that stare. Instinctively, she adjusted her posture.

“Ah, I was training late last night,” Sakura said awkwardly, resisting the urge to fidget with her hands. “Give me a second to freshen up and I’ll make us some tea. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Sakura skittered to her bedroom before the older woman could give a response. When the door shut behind her she leaned against it heavily, covering her mouth with both hands to muffle a frustrated scream. 

Of all the days, all the people, her  _ mother _ decided to pay her a visit. As if Sakura was not already suffering enough. 

Sakura groaned and moved her hands to tug lightly at her tangled hair. It wasn’t that she did not want to see her mother… it was that she preferred to take her in doses. Spread far apart, and within a controlled window of time. Usually an hour or less. Her father being there as a buffer was always a bonus.

Her mind whirred as she went about disrobing. Her shift started in three hours, that was too much time. She could limit this visit by at least twenty minutes to account for walking to the hospital,  _ slowly _ . 

She decided to take a nice, extended shower. She’d probably end up being scolded for keeping her mother waiting, but it would balance out by limiting the time she had to spend  _ talking _ to her. Sakura nodded to herself, taking her time going about her routine. Once clean, she even went so far as carefully towel drying, brushing and putting neat braids at the front of her hair. She applied a tinted lip balm, pinched her cheeks and exhaled before throwing on her clothes and going back out to face her unexpected guest.

Part of her hoped against hope that she had simply left, weary of waiting. 

“You always did take long showers,” her mother said nonchalantly as she stepped into the living room. 

Sakura froze at the sight of her mother sitting seiza with her entire traditional tea set spread over her small table. There were small plates with colorful wagashi atop them.

“I figured I’d set up while I waited,” her mother gestured across the table. “Sit. I brought your favorite sweets.”

Sakura obeyed, focusing closely on her posture. She said a quiet thanks, taking a bite of the soft sweet. Silence settled over them as her mom began to prepare the tea.

“Your hair, it’s nice to see that you’re growing it out again,” the older woman did not lift her eyes as she spoke, focused on her task.

She watched her mother’s hands as she worked, a pang of nostalgia stabbing into her chest. Mebuki’s hands were small, smooth pale skin covering delicate bones and tendons. The fingers moved like they were dancing, something that had enthralled Sakura since she could remember. They seemed so graceful, so steady and sure. She had tried many times to mimic those movements, that elegant softness, but she had never quite got it right. Her own hands were littered with scars, now, suited only for precision in surgery and devastation in battle.

“Taste,” her mother murmured, placing the small cup of steaming liquid in front of Sakura. “Tell me if that’s still how you like it.”

The earthy scent of the tea wafted up to her nose and Sakura got a closer look at Mebuki’s hands. They still looked soft and elegant, but they seemed even more delicate now. The skin of them thinner, fragile-looking-- blue veins just barely visible underneath, knuckles more prominent even as the fingers straightened in their retreat.

Sakura sipped her tea slowly, just as Mom had taught her. She closed her eyes as the flavor spread over her taste buds, reminding her of summer afternoons, her favorite sweets and an extra bit of sugar.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, bowing her head slightly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the older woman replied, taking her own small sip. She peered at her from over the rim. “So, what’s keeping you so busy that you can’t come say hello to your parents from time to time?”

“Work,” Sakura responded, sipping again.

“And?” Mebuki questioned, raising a fine brow. “Personally, I’ve been praying it’s a man.”

Sakura choked slightly, “Um..”

“But I hope it’s not that Uchiha,” she sneered, and it confused Sakura how the expression could be so beautiful and so ugly at the same time. “Your obsession with him never did you any good.”

“How would you know what good or bad it did me?” Sakura snapped, placing her cup down. “You never cared about anything I did once I decided to become a shinobi.”

Two pairs of green eyes clashed and Sakura could see a flash of irritation in the mirror-image lenses, but Mebuki stayed silent, opting to take a slow sip of her still-steaming tea.

“I have come to accept your decisions, as you gave me little choice,” she eventually supplied. “It is my only wish that you would come to take some of my own advice for you, as well.”

“And what is that?” Sakura questioned, her cheeks burning. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. “Retire from the shinobi forces, marry a civilian man, and build a civilian family in a civilian home? My career and lifestyle is not just some phase I will go through, I will  _ die _ a shinobi.”

“And you’ll die the child of a civilian woman, who raised you in a civilian family,” the words were sharp, softened only by the natural smoothness of her mother’s voice. “Do not forget, my daughter, that you, too, were brought up in a civilian home.”

“I want more,” she muttered.

“Just because I never bled for Konoha, does not mean that my existence is  _ less _ ,” there was offense in the set of her jaw and Sakura felt guilt drop like lead into her stomach. “It was my lineage that stitched the clothes you and your peers wear to battle,  _ civilian _ hands that planted and harvested everything you ever ate.”

“I’m sorry,” Sakura apologized, and she might as well have been a toddler, shrunken under the intensity of a familiar stare. The gravity of her insult hit her and she felt sick, ashamed.

She had pummeled Naruto for talking about civilians in a less belittling way.

“I don’t think any less of civilians,” she insisted, dipping her chin in apology, “but...in the end, it was not the life I wanted. And you never respected that.” 

“It was never a matter of respect,” she scoffed. 

“Then what?” Sakura asked and her voice sounded small then, too. 

“You chose a dangerous life,” Mebuki said sternly. “You surrounded yourself with dangerous people…”

“Mom,” Sakura said warningly. “Those dangerous people saved this village.”

“I’ve heard the whispers,” her mother said, tone serious. Chiding. “People say that you’ve been going about with that Uchiha boy.”

“His name is Sasuke,” she grit her teeth at the taste of his name in her mouth. Her skin prickled with aggravation, the ghost of old arguments lurking about the space. “And he is my teammate. My friend.”

“He left you unconscious on a bench,” Mebkui scowled, distaste twisting her soft features. “With no care for you or your little crush. Not one bit of care.”

“And you never  _ once _ let me forget it,” Sakura chuckled darkly. The tea was cold but she gulped it down nonetheless, swallowing more unsavory words and years of unuttered grievances with it.

“You shouldn’t forget it,” green eyes flashed. “If you expected me to stand idly by and quietly tolerate you chasing after some boy who did not want you, and worse was a traitor, a  _ criminal _ …”

“You should be pleased to know that Sasuke still does not want me,” she murmured, smirking slightly. “Just like you always said. You were right- I’m sure that makes you happy.”

Mebuki sighed and suddenly her expression was softer than it had been. “I only ever wanted the best for you, Sakura.”

“You wanted the best for  _ you _ , Mom,” Sakura shook her head, shocked at the burning sensation in her eyes. “Because nothing I ever wanted was good enough. I was never good enough.”

“Why ever would you say that?” her mother had the nerve to sound confused.

“I fought harder than anyone in my generation to become even half as skilled,” she said, jaw tense. It took every bit of her restraint to keep her voice steady. “And then I fought even  _ more _ to surpass children with bloodlines and clans and head starts that I could never even dream of. Never once did you say that you were proud of me. You ignore my accomplishments as a medic ninja, as a shinobi because you’re  _ ashamed _ of what I have become.”

“That is not true.”

“It is true,” Sakura whispered. “Every time I returned home from a mission or a hard day of training, you told me how bad of a choice I made, that my suffering was my own fault.”

“Sakura, what did you expect me to say?” Mebuki asked, nostrils flaring. There was her beautiful face, once again twisted in that ugly expression. “Should I have celebrated my child coming home bruised and battered and mourning the loss of a boy from a cursed bloodline?”

“I wanted you to be a mother and support me,” Sakura shouted. Her hands were shaking. “I didn’t need anything except for you to give me a hug and tell me things would be okay. Instead you reminded me of all the ways I wasn’t adequate, that I was not the child you dreamed of.”

The silence after her outburst was deafening. No words were spoken and Sakura swore that her mother could hear the pounding of her heart. Years of bitterness and frustration were swirling about in her gut and it made her nauseated, sick with resentment and yearning. 

_ I just want you to be proud of me. To look at my accomplishments instead of my mistakes. _

“I named you Sakura after the cherry blossoms that were in bloom the day you were born,” her mother broke the silence, voice quiet. “They were always my favorite. It was what attracted me to your father, the color. I did not know you would inherit his hair, his complexion, but I knew that you would be  _ mine _ and I would love you like all of my favorite things.”

Sakura stayed quiet, a thick lump building in her throat. It took effort to swallow it down and blink away the wetness of her eyes.

“The thing I hated the most,” her mother laughed, soft, quiet. “Was when people would  _ yank  _ on the blossoms, steal them from their branches only to tear their petals and trod on them as they walked away. Such a pretty thing, trampled over and left bruised on the ground. I swore that I would always protect  _ my _ cherry blossoms. They would stay safe and pure and beautiful until it was time for them to mature and bear fruit.”

Mebuki caught Sakura’s gaze. “But my cherry blossom didn’t want to be protected. And you were torn, trampled and bruised by the expectations of your chosen lifestyle, the belittling of sensei who refused to recognize and nurture your genius. Casting your rare beauty and purity before someone who was too broken inside to even bother to take a moment to look at it. It made me sad. Angry, even.”

“Is a cherry blossom no good anymore just because it’s lost some of its beauty?” Sakura whispered, a warm tear sliding down her cheek. She glanced down at her hands, scarred, calloused, rough.

“Blossoms, they never lose their beauty, because I love them so,” she replied, eyes shining in a particular way that made Sakura want to sob. “I eventually learned that whether I was there to guard them or not, they would  _ always  _ go on to bloom again the next spring.”

Quiet sniffles were the only sound in the room after that. Then came the clink of glass and the sound of hot liquid being poured, the scrape of sugar being scooped once, twice, a third time. The refreshed scent of jasmine wafted to her nose with the steam, her nostrils flared when small, delicate, fragile,  _ aging _ hands came to rest on her shoulders. The taste of salt was bitter on the tongue, but those hands, they smelled like cherry blossoms and her mother’s embrace was sweet.


End file.
